Soap by Any Other Name
by duvalia
Summary: A series of unrelated oneshots/drabbles speculating how John MacTavish got the callsign "Soap". See individual chapters for warnings.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Takes place before the first Modern Warfare. And Ed's some random guy considering we don't know what Soap was doing before MW.

* * *

John wasn't sure when it started, but after a week back at base the others had gradually stopped referring to him as MacTavish. They weren't calling him John either.

"_Hey Soap! Soap!"_

_John ignored the commotion in the showers and proceeded to lace up his boots. Someone must have stolen another soldier's bar again. _

"_Don't you listen?" John finished the knot before looking up to see Ed, the team's vehicle specialist. His hair was wet and all he had on was a towel wrapped around his waist._

"_I don't have any spare soap. Ask someone else," John muttered starting on his other boot. The other man let out a laugh._

"_You don't know about it?" _

"_Know about what?" Finally finished dressing, John stood ready to get to the firing range._

"_Nothing mate, nothing," the man answered a small smirk on his lips. John ignored him. He didn't really care to press the matter._

That had been the first time, although John hadn't realized it, that he was referred to as 'Soap'. At the beginning it only ever occurred in the showers. Slowly, however, the others were referring to him as Soap whether he was at chow or the obstacle course. After a few months both "John" and "MacTavish" were dropped altogether. If his commanding officers weren't referring to him by rank, they called him Soap as well.

"What's bothering you Soap?" Ed asked wiping an apple on his sleeve as he sat down. After hearing the nickname for so long, John had stopped wondering why, but hearing Ed say it brought him back to that time in the showers.

"Why does everybody call me Soap?" John took another bite out of his hard bread as he waited for a response.

"So you've been answering to the name for five months and still have no idea?" the man chuckled. "Although I can't say everyone knows the reason either. Ever hear the expression 'never drop the soap'?"

John nodded and continued to chew before swallowing to answer. "But how does that relate to me? I'm not gay."

"Yeah. And no one's saying you are mate. It's just that communal showers don't leave much to the imagination." John eyed him critically not sure where the conversation was going. "It's a compliment."

"How so?"

"If you were so inclined to engage is such activities then you are by far the worst person to be around if anyone was to drop the soap."

John was sent into a coughing fit as he choked on the water he was drinking. "_Excuse me_?" Surely, _that_ couldn't be the reason.

Ed smirked. "Like I said, it's a compliment Soap."

Whether he wanted it to or not the nickname ended up sticking. John didn't mind either way, but whenever someone asked him about it he wasn't quick to say how he'd gotten the name.

* * *

**A/N: **Sometimes when I get an idea for a story I write out a simple prompt so I won't forget it. I kept cracking up while writing this because part of my prompt read, "Soap has a big penis". Apparently Kevin McKidd (Soap's VA) does too - shower scene in Made of Honor.


	2. World in Flames

**A/N: **Pre MW. My brother gave me the idea of Soap being sent in to "clean up".

* * *

Bastard. Heartless. Greedy. Murderer.

Among all the things he'd been called, none were as misleading as the name he currently clung to. Perhaps the deception was part of the reason he continued to use it.

Two. _No. _Three guards. Soap tore his gaze away from his scope just long enough to reload his rifle. Another sentry stood at the rear of the building a lit cigarette set between his lips. Soap shifted his sights back to the two men chatting underneath the light of a lamppost. No change. Once again trained on the lone patrol he fired, the man dropping from the view of his scope like a ton of bricks.

A quick adjustment and the two guards were back in range. They continued talking, not having noticed the recent demise of their friend. From Soap's vantage point it was impossible to kill them both in one shot. A kill and a fatal wound maybe, but that wasn't good enough. The quick glimpses through the building's windows were enough to tell Soap that at least another four soldiers lay waiting inside. If he could help it, Soap wanted deal with the others on his own terms.

He scanned the area looking for cover that would allow him a better view of his targets. Not far from his position were some snow covered shrubbery. The mostly dying foliage wouldn't be enough to conceal him entirely from view, but it was sufficient for the immediate task at hand. Soap made his way toward it, keeping a wary eye out for anyone he might've missed. Once settled into his cover, he checked back on the troublesome twosome. He mentally cursed when a third man unexpectedly exited the building and jogged over to join his comrades. Soap briefly wondered if deciding not to take the two men out earlier was a curse or some stroke of luck.

It was impossible to hear what they were saying from this distance, but the sentries' glances were enough to tell Soap that visiting their smoking friend would soon be an option. No longer having the luxury of time, Soap took a deep breath and fired on the exhale. Even before the two men hit the ground, he shifted his view to the third man taking him out as well. He made his way towards the building trading his sniper for his suppressed assault rifle. After a quick check to make sure his weapons were fully loaded and his knife easily accessible, he tilted his head listening for sounds of movement and voices inside. There wasn't much noise, but he was able to gauge where most of the men were concentrated. One finger on the trigger of his gun and the other hand wrapped around a flashbang, Soap let out a calmed breath.

_Soap. _

Noun. Defined as a substance used for cleansing purposes.

Maybe Soap did adhere to his name's definition more than people originally thought.


	3. Cigs

**A/N:** My brother got me a new game for my birthday, so I've been playing that. FAIL. Though I do have six half-written stories (that don't seem to want to flow). Ah! But I forced myself to finish this fic today because I love my readers :D

Pre MW2.

* * *

MacTavish took a long drag from his cigarette as he headed towards the designated LZ. He wasn't making good time, but at the moment he was too tired to even care. After inhaling the last few puffs the cancer stick produced, he flicked the butt into the distance before searching for a replacement. Disappointed at discovering he had already smoked his lucky, the empty cigarette pack soon followed its companion.

While the 141 captain had a nasty habit of constant smoking, he was always careful to dispose of the filters properly. _But _considering he was surrounded by endless desert and the fact he could barely bring himself to move any faster, littering was the last thing he was concerned about. As the sun beat down on him he wiped at the beaded sweat on his forehead with his free arm, not bothering to reach for his canteen. It had long since been emptied. He silently cursed as he came to terms with the fact that his constant smoking may have also caused him to be a little more winded than he should have been at this point.

MacTavish knew that his body was in peak condition, but the unconscious man currently sprawled across his shoulders was making things difficult. At the sound of a groan, MacTavish slowed his pace to a walk.

"What the fuck?"

"Not so loud Roach, you're yelling in my ear," MacTavish complained.

"Sorry sir," the FNG replied sheepishly. "But why are you carrying me?"

"You didn't seem too keen on walking once you took that blow to the head," John muttered as he continued toward the LZ. Since Gary had regained consciousness the Scotsman released his hold on the man's arm, but kept his elbow hooked around Gary's knee. "Not to mention-"

"I got it…" Roach mumbled, somewhat embarrassed that the captain had to save his ass once again. "You can put me down now." MacTavish nodded then squatted to let the other man get on his feet, but the sergeant went down as soon as John moved away.

"You won't be making much progress on that leg," MacTavish sighed. "Got any water left?" Gary unfastened his canteen and shook it, the sloshing of liquid inside it clearly audible. John took the container, the water quenching his thirst despite its less than refreshing temperature. He handed it back to Gary who finished off the rest.

Letting Roach clear his head, MacTavish tried his radio again, but static was the only thing to greet him. He didn't bother with Roach's since it had been damaged when the man went down.

"So what now?" Gary asked after fastening the empty canteen to his belt.

"No choice," the Scotsman muttered. It wasn't like he had another option. All he could do was head toward the evac point like planned and hope someone was still around to pick them up. Resigned to the situation, MacTavish held out a hand, which Gary accepted gratefully as he got back on his feet.

"You don't need to carry me, a shoulder's good enough."

"Too slow." It would be a relief to not have to support the other man's full weight, but it was obvious that Roach's injury was too severe. MacTavish bent his knees once again to pull Gary over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. "What?" MacTavish asked noting the sergeant's hesitation. "Would you rather me carry you bridal style? You're light enough," the Scotsman joked.

"Not with all this gear, I'm not."

"We can't do much about your injuries so just bare with it for now." MacTavish pulled Roach's right arm over his left shoulder then hoisted the respective leg over his right shoulder, so the sergeant's left arm and leg hung freely behind him. In this position, it was easier to carry Gary for a longer period of time and it also put minimal strain on the sergeant's already injured body. "Comfy?" John asked blandly as he adjusted the man slightly.

"I'm fine." A wince. "What about you?" Roach asked as he turned his head to scan the scene behind them. The building they had stormed earlier was nowhere in sight, the only thing before him was the vastness of a hot dry desert.

"Here, keep a lookout," the Scotsman muttered handing his passenger his USP. "Don't fire it next to my ear, I don't want to go deaf." He watched as Roach switched the pistol to his left hand and held onto him with his right. With the sergeant conscious, MacTavish no longer had to worry so much about dropping the man and could now easily balance as he sprinted toward the evacuation point.

"So…" Gary uttered after a few minutes.

"Got a smoke?" John managed through controlled breathing. It probably wouldn't help, more like work against him, but damn if he wasn't craving another cigarette. Roach pulled out a pack at which MacTavish scoffed. It wasn't his usual brand, but it would do the job. He inhaled, unused to the taste of a filtered cigarette.

"You know, for a guy who smokes even more than I do, you don't smell. Like cigarettes, I mean." MacTavish let Roach talk, knowing the younger man was simply doing it to distract him from his tiredness and, honestly, it was working. He rolled his eyes as he felt Gary sniff him. "You actually smell good. Mostly anyway. But I don't blame you, not in this heat." The sergeant sniffed him again. "You smell familiar. Like…" He paused. "Usually I would say a laundry detergent, but you honestly smell like _soap_."

A small smiled made its way onto John's face. "Know why no one calls me by a callsign?"

"Because you don't have one."

"Because I already have one," John corrected. "I got it before I entered the SAS."

"Can't be any more harmless then Roach," Gary continued as he scanned the area.

"It's Soap."

"I stand corrected… metaphorically speaking." MavTavish glanced at Roach when the sergeant suddenly tensed. "Sorry. Thought I saw something. But it's nothing. Trick of the heat." Gary continued with the idle chatter, but John knew his subordinate was keeping careful watch on their surroundings. "Soap, huh?"

"Can't stand the smell of cigarettes."

"So… you smoke like a chimney," Gary commented at the irony.

"I usually smoke cigars, but cigarettes come in handy when on mission." It usually took him about five minutes to finish a cigarette versus the one to two hours it could take to smoke a cigar. While MacTavish used to use smoking to soothe his nerves, enjoying a cigar from start to finish had become a guilty pleasure. "The smell of tobacco bothered me, so I always washed my clothes several times to get rid of the scent."

"You're such a girl!" Roach laughed lightly.

"Says the soldier who needs to be carried."

"…MacTavish!"

The Scotsman raised an eyebrow at the tone but the sound of a more familiar accent calling his name made him realize it was coming from his radio. "Ghost?"

"Bollocks! Why haven't you been responding? What's your status?"

"The radio was out, but never mind that. We're headed towards the primary exfil point."

"Roger that."  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

MacTavish let Roach up but kept a steady arm on the younger man to keep him from falling over once again. Ghost came over to lend a hand with the FNG and handed the captain a bottle of water.

"Have a nice time, princess?" Ghost teased helping Gary to the helo.

"Shut the fuck up," the sergeant muttered accepting the help, but giving the masked man the finger. "At least I'm out there and not stuck behind some computer."

MacTavish only half listened to the idle banter as he let his body collapse onto the floor of the Pave Low. Tossing away the empty water bottle, he unsheathed his knife and pulled out a cigar. He was eager to just ditch his gear and hit the sack, but after cutting off the cap of his cigar and lighting up, the flight back to base didn't seem so bad.

**

* * *

A/N: **I'm not sure why people flip a cigarette in a new pack and call it their lucky, but it's a custom a lot of my smoker friends do. I've read that in the world wars soldiers smoked their (unfiltered) cigarettes backwards so the logo would burn off first and would not betray their county of origin. Hmm… I thought it was interesting.


	4. Plan B

**A/N: **Inspired by Fight Club. Vague/fake recipes to ensure no one gets inspired to blow up their house. This is actually the first fic I started on for this series of oneshots. Eh.

Takes place after "The Gulag", but before "Loose Ends".

* * *

Soap tied the last of the wires together before placing the newly molded C4 next to Roach's goggles. Though the recently recruited Task Force sergeant had proven himself to be quite the competent soldier, Roach apparently had some serious case of bad luck. After the numerous mishaps of their last assignment, the FNG was currently getting some well-deserved shuteye in the other room. Soap hoped that they wouldn't have to go to _Plan B_ for their next mission, but he'd learned it was always better to be safe than sorry.

Once again seated at his makeshift table, MacTavish immediately went to work on fixing up the wiring on the detonator. He paused when the sound of steady clicking of computer keys ceased. Whether it was because he was new or he was just naturally quiet, Sanderson rarely ever spoke. Soap's second in command was a completely different story. For someone named Ghost, the man really liked making himself known.

Soap did his best to ignore Riley and instead concentrate on the wires spread out before him, but Ghost had apparently tired from tinkering with his computer and decided he wanted company. The Scotsman stole a glance at his subordinate as he heard movement. The masked man had pulled up a foldable chair next to him, sitting on it backwards so he could lean on the backrest of the seat. Even if he couldn't see Riley's eyes through his sunglasses MacTavish could tell that Ghost's gaze lay solely on him.

In order to get attention Ghost had come up with a game of staring at the captain until the latter finally put aside whatever he was doing. As both men were seasoned snipers, the game sometimes went on for an hour. The waiting game was nothing new to Ghost and Soap had little trouble shutting out the rest of world to concentrate on his target. Though MacTavish suspected that it was his lieutenant's desire to get on his nerves more than a simple wish to strike up conversation. While Soap could easily manage ignoring Ghost for ten minutes or so, there was something about that seemingly perpetual smirk on Ghost's balaclava that drove him up a wall.

Despite the feeling of being watched, the 141 captain proceeded with the wiring. A few minutes passed before Soap allowed himself to spare a glance at the man beside him. Riley's head was cocked to one side as if an internal debate raged on inside of his head.

"What is it Ghost?" MacTavish finally conceded, deciding to acknowledge his companion.

"What kind of a name is Soap?" Ghost replied, answering his superior's question with another question. John almost smiled at a memory. Price had asked him the same thing and then had quickly moved onto the mission briefing, apparently thinking out loud and not really caring about why his FNG had such a nickname. "A name you got in the SAS?" Riley continued.

"No. I got it before then."

"Care to elaborate?" Ghost asked as he rested his chin on the backrest of his chair as if preparing himself for a long-winded story.

MacTavish rolled his eyes, but decided to humor the masked man since it was out in the open ever since they'd rescued Prisoner 627. "Under Price I was the designated sniper, but before I was recruited into the SAS I mostly worked with explosives." Ghost didn't question that. Looking at his captain working it was fairly obvious the Scotsman knew a thing or two about blowing things up. But that still didn't answer his question. He waited for MacTavish to continue…  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MacTavish scanned the area through his scope spotting one sentry taking a smoke break outside one of the houses. At least another three men were inside the building but from his vantage point, John was unable to see into the other houses.

"Bloody hell!" The voice a sudden sound in his ear. MacTavish looked to his left, the direction he'd sent Prophet down to check the area ahead. He waited for the man to elaborate. "No one told us there was going to be a fucking tank here!"

John cursed with him. A possibly endless sea of enemy soldiers? Difficult, but easily manageable especially since he and Prophet were the only ones left from the initial ten man squad. At this point, all they had to do was sneak past the remaining guards to get to the LZ. But no tank, even a lightly armed one, was going to be a walk in the park especially since they'd used up all their C4 and grenades. And it's not like they'd find some RPG lying around.

"What's the situation with the two houses to the north?" MacTavish murmured quietly into his radio.

"Hmm… at least two in the house to the left and another three in the one to the right."

"And the tank?"

"Looks like a Scimitar. It's behind the house to the right about twenty meters down."

MacTavish let out a small sigh of relief. They would've been in a hell of a lot more trouble if it had been a Challenger. Damn night vision. "Regroup on me." John waited patiently behind the stacked boxes as Prophet made his way toward him, the man's silhouette barely visibly in the dark. The Scotsman scanned the area once again before deciding on the best course of action. "We'll take the houses one by one. The house closes to us, one man outside and at least three inside. Next, at least two. And last at least another three."

Prophet nodded and they both checked their weapons to ensure they were fully loaded, not that they had much spare ammo left. John made his way toward the solitary soldier taking him out with his silenced USP. He nodded at Prophet who took his spot at the other side of the door. At the mental count of three, MacTavish opened the door killing the two guards to the left; Prophet taking out the last man standing.

They searched the rest of the house, but the initial three soldiers were the only people inside. As they explored the rest of the building, MacTavish unconsciously took inventory, storing the information for later use. The duo made their way to the next two houses easily taking out the men Prophet had seen earlier as well as a few he hadn't.

"So what now?" Prophet whispered as he came down the stairs after securing the top floor. MacTavish ignored the man to concentrate on the task in front of him. The Brit let out an annoyed mumble at the silent treatment, but moved toward the door to keep a lookout. With the exception of the Scimitar rolling around the vicinity was clear. It was mostly silent for the next few minutes, but the stinging smell of a cleaning agent and gasoline prompted Prophet to check what his commanding officer was doing. MacTavish was surrounded by glass bottles and various other containers. "Damn."

"What?" MacTavish asked holding what looked to be a petrol bomb in one hand.

"So I guess I know what we're doing now," the Brit muttered a small smirk on his face. John returned the grin, handing the man the petrol bomb. "And what's that?" Prophet asked referring to the other bottle.

"Something I cooked up," the Scotsman replied vaguely, carefully picking up the bottle. "Follow me." The two men exited the building, sticking close to the walls to avoid being spotted.

"Bravo Two, what's your status?" another voice crackled through John's radio.

"We're almost at the LZ, but we encountered a little problem."

"ETA two minutes."

"Roger that," MacTavish muttered into his radio. He turned to his companion. "Prophet, follow my lead." He handed the man a lighter before making his way toward the tank. "Cover me."

Prophet nearly stumbled when John rushed the Scimitar throwing whatever concoction he'd made at the tank. An explosion erupted from the armored vehicle almost throwing him off his feet. Quickly regaining his senses Prophet lit the cloth of his petrol bomb and threw it at the Scimitar trapping and killing anyone who may have survived inside.

"Move it!" John yelled through the darkness as the sound of a helicopter passed overhead.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"The princess get enough beauty sleep?"

"Shut up Ghost," Roach muttered groggily as he lightly rubbed at his black eye. He heard Riley snort and knew the older man was holding back a laugh. Prisoner 627 wasn't Gary's favorite person at the moment, but MacTavish seemed to trust him. "What are you two talking about?"

"Roach," John stated simply holding out the finished detonator.

"Yeah, thanks," Gary replied taking it and placing it beside his goggles. He looked at the lieutenant who seemed to waiting for a response from the captain. "What I miss?"

"Soap seems obsessed with blowing things up."

"I would know. He tells me to plant a C4 at least every other mission." Roach paused. "You're calling him that too?" He asked addressing Ghost.

"Though I can't help think of 'don't drop the soap' since you two were in that gulag's shower for awhile."

MacTavish stood and pulled out a cigar, cutting off the end of one side with his tactical knife. He held the knife out examining the sharp edge of the blade. "I suggest you get ready to leave before I decide to make a blood napalm."

* * *

**A/N: **Vague much? Anyway, sorry for the lack of updates. School, family, other obligations, you know the drill. I still have ideas for both this and "The FNG", but I've been focusing on two multi-chaptered fics that are rather… interesting.


	5. Hard Liquor

**A/N: **Probably not the update most of you wanted, but it's the only thing I could get myself to write. References to "Drugs" (The FNG) and "Beautiful". Pre MW2.

**Warning: **Alcohol abuse (and as a result, possible OOC).

* * *

MacTavish was well aware of Roach's drug problem, but he let it slide as he trusted Ghost enough to take care of it. He was also aware of the little arrangement his lieutenant had set up with their resident druggie, but that, too, he ignored. The kid only ever turned to substance abuse after particularly demanding missions and John's second in command had been to hell and back again. As long as Roach didn't have a problem with the situation, John didn't see how it was any of his business.

The Scotsman didn't deny that his men's dealings only contributed to more problems in the long run, but what they chose to do on their own time was none of his concern. Though only as long as it didn't interfere with their performance on the field.

However, above all, the main reason he let the two carry on with what they were doing was MacTavish had problems of his own.

He twirled the clear liquid in his glass before downing it and pouring himself a new one. The taste was inconsequential at this point, but the burn down his throat gave him a sense of satisfaction. _Vodka._ Not his drug of choice, but John was lucky to get any sort of alcohol is this hell hole.

The thought pissed him off and he emptied his glass once again. He wasn't sure how many he'd had already, but judging from the lack of liquid in the bottle it had to be a lot. He needed a fucking shot of Scotch. Like that was going to happen.

MacTavish walked toward the bathroom, but stumbled and dropped his glass before he braced himself against a wall attempting to regain his balance. His vision went blurry and he stood there for awhile, not trusting himself to walk.

"Fucking shite."

Instead, MacTavish leaned his back against the wall and sank to the floor before finishing off the contents of the bottle. He placed the empty bottle by his leg and attempted to pick up the remnants of his broken glass, cutting himself on a shard. With the amount of alcohol in his system, John didn't _feel_ the pain but it hurt all the same. He'd been broken and patched up enough times that his body simply _knew _the pain it was supposed to feel.

John brought the bleeding digit to his mouth, the taste of blood almost soothing. The cut was deep, but he let his hand drop to his side. Like a fucking piece of glass was going to kill him. Maybe he'd look at it when he managed to stand up again. With everything, it had become almost normal for his blood to be outside of his body.

His eyes slid shut and John lightly traced the scar over his left eye, the memories it held clearer in his head than the expanse of the room that had been right before his eyes.

He lied there dying as Griggs tried to get him to safety, tried to protect him, before the man's life was cut short with a mere bullet and a splatter of blood. Gaz struggled only meters away before a single shot to the head and his body went limp, lifeless. Then came the memory of Kamarov's men as they attempted to revive Price, the man who'd saved John's life on countless occasions.

It was only in the solitude of his room and under the influence of alcohol that John let himself miss his old life. To have a commanding officer he trusted completely and honestly looked up to. A time where he didn't have to worry about how many soldiers… _comrades _he would lose before the day was finished.

If only his men could see him now.

But they never would.

"MacTavish?" A faint voice called out from the other side of the door. "I heard something break." It was Roach, his American accent still an unfamiliar sound in John's ear. "You okay?" The concern in Gary's voice was almost enough to make John answer, but he remained silent. There were a few more knocks and a long pause before Roach gave up and the voice of whoever he was talking with faded as they left.

John no longer had the luxury of being the FNG, the one the others picked on, yet still looked out for. Now as a captain, he had responsibilities to his men; to be strong and not give them a reason to doubt his leadership. To them he was always 'Captain MacTavish'.

But now sitting on his arse next to an empty bottle of Vodka, he was _Soap_; another name and another remnant of his past life he allowed to resurface. The memories of when Price had kicked his arse when he found out the reason for his callsign. But Price wasn't around anymore to tell him he was a fucking idiot for resorting to alcohol.

"I'm fine," MacTavish muttered quietly, his voice carrying none of the confidence it always had. He wasn't even sure who he was lying to anymore. Roach, Price, himself. It was a half truth because John knew he _would _be fine.

But it was also a lie because for the moment, he wasn't.


End file.
